


silly boys, no one needs to hear your words

by kivancalcite



Series: how to dream in black and white [1]
Category: Adventures of Tintin (2011), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Anger, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Abuse, Attempted Murder, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Cliffhangers, Coughing, Death Threats, Dreams and Nightmares, Drowning, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Delain, Inspired by Music, M/M, Nausea, Non-Consensual Touching, Pain, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Trauma, References to Drugs, Rescue, Restraints, Rival Relationship, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sick Character, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Trauma, Vomiting, drug induced compliance, gets thrown off the motorcycle onto concrete, haddock can't help but open up his more dad side when tintin's in danger, i love this dynamic so much tintin needs a father figure in his life, i love writing sakharine he's such a fancy evil bastard, i've decided to make this a series, nothing goes beyond that but the language really does...sound like that, poor tintin is in incredible pain as usual, snowy's death is threatened as well, tintin gets 'accidentally' hit by a car when he's on the motorcycle during the chase for the scrolls, what if tintin was swapped with haddock during the end of the falcon chase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kivancalcite/pseuds/kivancalcite
Summary: Title is inspired by a lyrics from the song "Carnivore" by Starset, whilst the whole concept of the fic is inspired by "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" by Delain (of which the first chapter is inspired by a lyric from it). Reversed roles during the end of the falcon scene with Tintin being dangled off with Snowy on the edge of the harbour instead of Haddock after being 'accidentally' hit by Sakharine and his lackeys' car. Interesting psychological look at the relationships, history and feelings involved when Haddock has to wrestle with the fact that one of the now most important people in his life is attacked and about to be shoved off the harbour to drown by his toxic, manipulative, sadistic and oldest rival who wants more than just the scrolls in the process.
Relationships: Archibald Haddock & Tintin, Archibald Haddock/Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine, Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine/Tintin, Milou | Snowy & Tintin, i feel it's really important to explore the possible kind of rivalry they share, the one sided possessive version
Series: how to dream in black and white [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143344
Comments: 37
Kudos: 26





	1. i let the face of concrete meet with mine

**Author's Note:**

> It seemed fitting to put 'boys' down, as a reference that neither of them are safe from the target of Sakharine's spite. He'll find a way to hurt the other through the other one, which I find interesting with how in the film it isn't just physical items he's after.

It could’ve been a blur with how it happened, but despite the desperation during the whole chase to grab onto the scrolls, to Tintin it felt like slow motion. A slow-motion colliding of vehicles, metal upon metal before he even had time to react. A sudden, sharp thud and clash, clearly done on purpose as the scrolls were in his hand, and he was flying over the handlebars and hurtling several feet onto concrete where he barely had time to throw his arms out to protect himself.

He only managed a short cry that tore from his throat as the impact of the red car hit the motorcycle before his body hit the ground, out of shock, out of pain, but his breath was stolen from him as he heard a sickening crack of _something_ and he felt it, felt it and knew he had broken at least a thing or two, able only to register it through silent screams and hissing between gritted teeth. His skin – arms, hands, face – what he felt he could naturally perceive in his dazed state, felt bruised and wet with his own blood. He could taste the copper in his mouth and retched, a raw sound escaping from the back of his throat.

There seemed no chance of moving, limbs feeling too twisted to try and push himself back up, but it was all the more confirmed as the now slow, methodical footsteps from the car echoed in his throbbing head as they approached him. Trying to steady his breathing and lift his head up more were actions now thwarted, a familiarly polished shoe pressing against the back of his head, slowly but roughly back onto the concrete as he swallowed back blood and a muffled cry of pain.

“Dear, dear,” he heard Sakharine mutter in a mock sympathetic voice, “It appears there’s been a bit of an accident. Such a _shame_.”

He could feel the condescension from where he was on the ground, the older man deliberating on his words like he got his lackeys to deliberate with his vehicle. He cursed into the ground, tasting the bitterness of blood and concrete, unable to move his twisted and scraped limbs in lieu of the further agony it would cause him. In his desperation at getting the scrolls, he’d risked so much like he always did and currently there was no way of combating anything in his state. He was just trying not to let Sakharine’s vile words affect him, not now, not ever.


	2. a shot to remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title is a lyric from the song 'The Sharpest Lives' by My Chemical Romance, which I think fits them pretty much to a T and what's involved here.

He flitted between consciousness and not, his body giving in to his injuries and the general impact of his head shoved against concrete, only awoken properly by flares of pain running up his limbs having been dragged to his feet, bloody and bruised, strangled gasps of pain escaping him at the usual sensation of rough rope that pinned his broken arms far too tightly behind his back. And the shouting – dear god, in his drowsy and shattered state, he’d forgotten about the captain.

“You monster!!” he heard the deep voice shout, with what sounded like anger but also terror, “What have you done with the poor lad??”

There was sadism in Sakharine’s voice as he shot back a swift response. “Oh, everything you have to worry about,” he remarked maliciously, “just don’t come any closer, _if I were you._ ”

Tintin started to feel his heart pound in his chest, feeling like he could tell what Sakharine was referring to. He blinked, not able to hold back the fear in his eyes despite the bloody attempt at a sneer in the direction of the older man.

“And why’s that?” he managed to rasp out, his usual spouting off at people who wanted him dead spilling out in a spiteful manner, a twitch of a smirk pulling on his already angry expression despite the pain.

Sakharine’s head spun in his direction, face changing to a sickly sympathetic expression. “You,” he spoke softly, “should be a lot more worried about what’s going to happen to you.” A grin broadened across his face, voice lowering further. “And your little dog besides.” He reached out a hand to hold his face in a faux comforting manner, a thumb across the lower half of his face, Tintin finding difficulty in shaking off that touch and remaining stoic in his expression. It didn’t seem to bother Sakharine as blood spread across his bruised features like his split lips and from under his broken nose, his hands stained with blood as the boy’s eyes could only burn with fire in his attempt to shift away from him.

Tintin barely registered the reference to his own dog before he was shoved backwards and the hand fell away from him, now hearing Snowy’s frantic yelping as he could no longer feel a stable footing, only feel almost an emptiness when he tried to stand, the heavy tug of his white dog and the glimpse of water lapping at the edge of the platform beneath him sending a new wave of sickness come over him. He would’ve fallen, but remained barely dangling on the edge if it weren’t for Allan pulling on fistfuls of his bloodied ripped shirt in the process.

“Don’t you _dare_ , you blistering excuse for a man, you blasted nobility---” Haddock was seething, and cut himself off, seeing Tintin’s state, broken and precariously held over the edge, eyes unable to hold back some form of pleading to _stop_ on his part, “You have the scrolls and he’s just a boy! Haven’t you got what you wanted now without having to kill him??”

“I think you’ve neglected to remember something, _dear_ Captain,” Sakharine responded, an expression of anger almost overriding the pure glee at mocking his rival, “although I don’t expect a drunkard like you to be able to, after all, but the point is – you seem far too keen to forget this devil of a child has caused me nothing but problems from the very beginning. I’d say you’ve grown far too… _attached_ to him, shall I say?”

Haddock momentarily stopped at the stressing of these words. But it was less about being attached, wasn’t it? When did he ever remember someone being so wide-eyed and engaging with him and not about to stab him in the back at a moment’s notice? Regardless, Sakharine was about to murder someone right in front of him, the usual trait of a merciless villain undeniably trying anything to get what he wanted and people he didn’t want, of course, out of his way. It would be back to square one, leaving him again with a man taking advantage of not only his family history, but _him_ besides.

He knew that all too well.


	3. let me show you a face that fits to neither one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only getting worse as Sakharine wants the truth out of Haddock, with Tintin in the middle, whose inevitable fate is sitting on the line. But we all know that the bastard won't play fair, will he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title a reference to the Delain song 'Here Come The Vultures' which is particularly appropriate for Sakharine and what he's doing here: "They said you can not sing the blues / When you're pretty and young / Let me show you a face that fits to neither one".

He brought himself back, anger rising back in his voice. “Well, kill me for being a little sentimental then, you aristocratic son of a pilfering profiteer,” he shouted sardonically, making some uneasy footsteps towards the end of the harbour, “Whatever trouble the lad has caused you, it only seems natural for you to want to shove him into the water to drown! You don’t need to kill him to get what you want!”

At the motion Haddock was making towards him, Sakharine didn’t know if he should be angry. Whatever he did, he knew the captain would never have the upper hand. Besides, he was so much closer to admitting the truth and he wasn’t about to give up until he said so. Maybe getting rid of the ginger brat, as much as he interested him, was not worth the trouble he was causing him and Haddock and himself had far too much…history together to let go of this. But this would show where his loyalties would really lie, and Sakharine would leave with not only the scrolls, but having sent his own form of a spiteful message his way.

Tintin’s arms felt like they would tear out of their sockets, the pain unbearable and it being enough that his feet were barely scraping the edge of the harbour with poor Snowy tied beneath him. Amongst the physical agony, it was hard for his mind to think of anything else where it wasn’t being drowned out by it. His eyes were able to see past Allan at the captain and he would’ve said more, voice and words stuck in his throat. Of course, he’d already got involved enough with the history of this rivalry, the story that went deeper than he imagined. But it was far too much now, being trapped like this, a pawn in this stupid, malicious, one-sided game, someone disposable on the sidelines. He felt helpless and scared to watch this… _bastard_ , as he so frankly put it, play with others’ lives like he usually did. He didn’t want Haddock to come any closer, still knowing that Sakharine would drop him anyway, eyes undeniably pleading in his direction.

Sakharine tilted his head, a sly grin on his face as the captain moved closer. “You’re treading on dangerous ground Haddock, if you come any closer,” he said, voice calm but sinister, “not like the boy won’t die anyway, but you know what I want and _you clearly want to say it too._ ” He stressed the last part, amused, laughing briefly as if this entire scenario was a sick joke to him.

Haddock always had a lot of rage bubbling in his system, especially since he usually passed out drinking, and it would come to the surface eventually. He knew Tintin wanted him to not make things worse, but things were already terrible, even if he was conflicted due to his attachment to the young lad he’d just met. “This is about _us_ , Sakharine, not him,” he spat, fists balled by his side to the point that his knuckles were turning white, knowing he wouldn’t get anywhere, “you just want to spite me as a reminder that that was the only thing I ever had and should just die a _worthless, lonely drunkard._ ”

Sakharine’s face lit up with gleeful sadism. “Oh, you know me _far_ too well, Haddock,” he responded, voice patronising as he raised his eyebrows, “it’s so much of a shame that your name will be… _drowned out_ , shall I say, by the tides of history.”

He made a vicious grin before he turned and shoved Tintin off the harbour wall with a sudden kick to the stomach and the boy's torn, bloody shirt slipped out of Allan's grasp. He reacted with a mixture of pain and shock and horror in the span of a second, eyes and mouth instantly wide open with terror as he felt himself succumbing to the sickening force of gravity beneath him; the last thing he saw before hitting the water being not the captain’s face, but the decidedly spiteful and cruelly amused expression of a man who could not be any less suited to possess a family name such as Sakharine.


	4. this is how it feels to take a fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who could the chapter title, taken from Bastille's 'Icarus', be referring to? I want to show more and more of these vulnerabilities as a very troubled captain opens up more of his dad side as he goes to save an equally troubled young man and his dog. Neither of them want to think about the rivalry but they can't help it, and what matters is that they're both alive. Maybe.

For a split second Tintin felt like he’d left his own body as he fell before he hit the water, mind dazed, swimming. His body already felt uncontrollable, stiff and rigid without his broken arms wrenched back painfully behind him. But as he violently hit the water, the ocean and reality came crashing back to him and before he realised it, he’d swallowed a good lot of seawater almost instantly, bubbles streaming achingly from the rawness of his nose and throat. The salty water closed around him and his injured body screamed at how it washed over and stung his bruised and scarred flesh.

The cold shock of the water hit him extraordinarily too in the heat, the chill shooting like lightning bolts through his veins and in his bones. It was getting harder and harder not to panic even though his survival instinct was screaming at him not to make it worse even though he felt his immobility amongst the cold, his injuries, the ropes that rubbed too tightly and raw around his wrists and the suffocating darkness and water that was now running through his mouth, down his throat and into his lungs.

In a halo of light above him, there was a sudden crash as a dark form collided with the water, bubbles scattering every which way. He couldn’t help but rely on the captain as he appeared to awkwardly swim towards the reporter, his limbs a flurry of desperation and unsurprisingly not used to swimming as the wash of the ocean surrounded him. Tintin felt selfish wishing that the captain would sober up, knowing how much of a problem he had with alcohol. The young man was used to being left to die, he should usually come to expect that; but he felt mad enough that he was dependent on the captain whose vicious rival had come to simply use him as a pawn and nothing else entirely. Gratefulness at this point seemed already out of the equation, even if he felt he was giving Sakharine all the more power for saying so.

Snowy seemed a little more able to wriggle free of the ropes, Tintin internally cursing a dog’s ability to able to have teeth that could cut through bindings like these of all things. He began to struggle to the surface, paddling up in more of a flailing sense and passing the dark shadow of the captain that approached him. Tintin’s lungs felt like they were on fire, head bursting as everything took on a blurrier appearance, feeling like this was how he was to die out of everything that had happened to him. Out of anything, it would be a bloody rivalry that went back generations, that he was in the middle of, that he would simply be the fallout for.

The darkness was all consuming and all suffocating, but the motions of the captain towards him were enough to drag him out of it as he felt a large, rough hand grab tightly onto his arm and pull him up and out towards the surface. The light was glowing on the water, almost dream-like and for a split second Tintin thought he was about to wake up home in his apartment after another terrible nightmare, before their heads finally broke the surface and the raw pain that he felt in his throat was incomprehensible as his body took in the warm afternoon air. His head throbbed and ached, drowsiness almost overcoming his senses as he heard the captain speak and kick him through the water to the dock nearby.

“Lad, you’re here, we’re here,” Haddock spoke, breathing heavily, his deep tones soothing almost like a parent would to a child, “you’re alive…it’s alright. I was so scared.” There was the splashing and yapping of Snowy behind him, doggy paddling over to contribute his sharp teeth into biting through the completely sodden ropes that pinned his owner’s arms painfully behind his back. “He’s here,” Haddock said, gesturing to his small white dog, “We’re all here. That’s all that matters now.”

The captain turned, eyeing the sinister figures on the harbour near his ship behind them with barely concealed resentment. He turned back as quickly as he had looked. This was no time to think about rivalries, as much as it betrayed him and his family's legacy to say so. It stopped being about that when Sakharine had shoved a teen boy and his dog in the water to die.


	5. next time you point a finger, i'll point you to the mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written a whole lot and this is getting more intense and exciting, in a sense, so it'll be 7 chapters instead of 5, for the same reason this and the final chapter will be considerably longer than usual. Chapter title is a reference to the lyrics of the Paramore song 'Playing God', which I felt was quite fitting here for the situation and attitudes described here.

Though it came as no surprise, the quick, sharp movement of Sakharine shoving the poor boy and his dog off the harbour and seeing them topple into the water made Haddock freeze momentarily, breath hitching in his throat and his chest feeling tighter than before. Multiple emotions were flitting across his face – disgust, horror, anger, distress, panic, unbridled rage – only enhanced when his aristocratic rival whirled around, that condescending, self-satisfied expression on his face.

Reality came rushing back to him as he heard Tintin and his dog crash into the water below and that sinister voice ring out just ahead of him.

“Aren’t you going to save your precious reporter and his mutt?” he asked, more rhetorically than anything else, “or have I somehow shocked you enough into sobriety?”

The bastard appeared both amused and full of contempt – when did he not? – at the mockery of the captain’s character, alcoholism, anything about him he could take aim at. It was all the same with him. But when it hit him, only terror took over at Tintin’s prospects in the water and he pushed the anger aside, propelled forward only by the desire to not let anyone die, regardless of whether it was at Sakharine’s hands or not. That’s what he told himself. Bullshit to the idea that he’d be proving a point – he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, did he?

He knew he was an awkward swimmer, even if he managed to haul the young boy out from the depths of what would’ve been a very early grave and lift him up onto the docks in front of them. He felt those eyes on him, when he was running to clumsily jump off the harbour, when him and Tintin broke the surface and swam them over to a somewhat higher, drier place. Why were they still here? Hadn’t they got what they wanted?

Snowy made an attempt to scrabble onto the dock in front of them, before Haddock picked up the wriggling white dog to lift him up onto it. He seemed to know what he was doing as the top half of his body reached higher ground and scrabbled the rest of the way before turning around and yapping impatiently at the captain as he returned to lifting Tintin up. He was clearly trying to hide a lot of the pain he was in, unable to put weight on any part of his body without a cry of distress and sharp inhales of breath. He’d winced as the ropes around his wrists finally came loose, the saltwater washing up against now freed, raw and almost bloody skin. The captain had had enough to be angry about without this, but as he remembered, his fear, now transformed into concern, was the only thing he was focusing on at the moment.

He wasn’t as light as he’d expected – although considering such a 17-year-old appeared to have a seasoned career involving this sort of thing, he’d naturally had to readjust his assumptions due to a more or less exception to the rule. The captain at least had the energy to shift him onto the dock before he himself got up, Snowy already yipping and whining into his owner’s face with great distress. The boy appeared practically comatose, his brutal injuries compounded with being submerged in water and deprived of oxygen for far too long.

His ginger hair stood out even more remarkably against his pale skin that was now littered with cuts and bruises, chest barely rising in response to the previous events. His shirt and trousers had been considerably ripped, blood continuing to dry on them, and Haddock’s hands were shaking as he half crawled over to the boy to prop him up against his chest.

The captain never had children for a number of reasons, but he’d found himself worrying so much over this teenager who seemed to attract dangerous attention far too easily. He found himself cradling the reporter against himself, an arm around his chest and a hand running through his hair almost like how his mother would do when he was troubled or falling asleep. Perhaps it was the age difference, but no matter how strong and spirited and _mature_ the boy could act, his youth was far too easily betrayed by his young, delicate appearance and bright-eyed nature. Haddock didn’t think he’d have the instincts in him, but Tintin was still a child for all he cared, and no amount of fighting for the captain would he let him get hurt like this.

Haddock felt a shift of weight against him, hearing a soft, drowsy murmur before a sudden movement of coughing and jerking forward alarmed both the captain and Snowy. They both moved back slightly, managing to catch the sight of a pained Tintin spluttering amidst vomiting up a decent portion of seawater that was playing even more havoc with how raw his throat felt on the way up.

“I’m sorry…” he rasped, clearly in pain and digging his fingernails into the wood of the dock, “I almost had it…”

Despite being submerged in the ocean for far too long, there was some sadness and regret he felt he could see in Tintin’s eyes. Haddock’s chest still felt tight, but that was enough to break his heart. The teen collapsed back into a similar position in the captain’s arms, looking all the more like a distressed child cradled in their parent’s arms, and he cursed at how much his family’s legacy and this violent rivalry had practically swallowed his whole life that a teenage boy was apologising for being in the middle of it all.

“Tintin, don’t…” Haddock finally spoke, half wanting to admonish him for apologising but he didn’t deserve it, he didn’t, “they’re just scrolls. I know how important it feels but…not at the cost of a life.” Snowy whined sadly, licking his owner’s face. “Not at the cost of anyone or anything’s life.” He felt like he was betraying his family’s legacy, but they wouldn’t want this. Unlike a certain family, where lives were just a currency to use to bargain with for what they wanted. Nothing else mattered right now but the fact that all three of them were alive.

“This is why you’re the weakest one, Haddock. I think I’ve proved enough.”

The captain froze, so overwhelmed by this current moment that he didn’t notice the slow, menacing footsteps behind him before he heard that familiarly dark voice. What did Sakharine want now? He felt anger rushing back to the surface, eyeing Snowy who had now taken on a defensive stance, teeth bared and growling. The aristocrat didn’t take any notice of him.

“I don’t have anything to prove to you,” Haddock spat bitterly, turning just away from the ginger teen and holding onto him just that bit more tightly, “you’ve done enough. You’ve got what you wanted and we’re in no position to stop you. So why haven’t you and your lackeys just _left_ already?”

He could hear that sick laughter from behind him. It was always predictable, but still made him shiver. God, he wished so much to drown it out, for lack of a better way to put it out. He was already far too much into adulthood, but at least he could maybe stop this from all happening to someone like Tintin.

“Oh, Haddock, and I _thought_ you knew me well enough,” Sakharine replied, his smug aura radiating so easily that the captain didn’t have to look at him, “I still don’t have everything I want.”

Haddock felt the undeniable prickle of his scalp and the racing beat of his heart. Perhaps it was too much of an assumption due to his protectiveness, but it didn’t stop him. Not even Sakharine could get anyone else to pay for the captain’s mistakes but himself. “Don’t you dare,” he snarled, trying not to shake out of anxiety, out of anger, whatever it was.

He felt those eyes on him again in a foreboding silence and unfortunately more usually, he was terrified for someone else's life more than his own.


	6. did the devil just walk in his room?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I may have underestimated my ability to write more content for this fic, but I guarantee the events will continue to intensify the ways perhaps not expected.

Tintin was only perceptibly aware of his surroundings when he was dragged from the water, the captain hugging him tenderly and Snowy licking and whining worriedly into his face being the forefront of his mind. He felt it all go black soon after, body straining under the agony of his injuries and the experience of almost drowning and proceeding to cough his lungs up afterwards. He couldn’t think about what the memories entailed, now overwhelmed by the clear scent of disinfectant and hospital linen, of which he was all too familiar with.

It ached to open his eyes, but even more so as his injuries hit him, feeling the agony deep down to the bone. He felt a short, sharp cry escape his sore throat; his breath unsteady as he tried to adjust himself up on the hospital bed. Everything _hurt_. So much of his limbs, some of his chest and his head felt wrapped in bandages that bit into him as he shifted around, and he felt the pull of an IV in his right arm connected up to a plastic bag of fluid. He felt fear in his chest despite his surroundings, but he couldn’t pinpoint why, the glare of the lights hurting his eyes as he tried to adjust to the place he was in.

It appeared to be a private room, which confused him a little. Sure, he didn’t have the most public of rooms when he went to hospital, but this felt more than a little confining for his liking. He lay back against the pillows, sighing, trying to remain calm. He was safe, wasn’t he? He could just relax, couldn’t he---

His breath hitched. Where was the captain?

He heard the door open on the far-left side of the room. Sure, he was sleepy, feeling a drowsiness from the painkillers he could feel were in his system, but he wished he didn’t recognise the sound of those footsteps. And that undeniable flash of deep red.

That wasn’t the captain.

_There seemed no chance of moving, limbs feeling too twisted to try and push himself back up, but it was all the more confirmed as the now slow, methodical footsteps from the car echoed in his throbbing head as they approached him. Trying to steady his breathing and lift his head up more were actions now thwarted, a familiarly polished shoe pressing against the back of his head, slowly but roughly back onto the concrete as he swallowed back blood and a muffled cry of pain._

_“ **Dear, dear,** ” he heard Sakharine mutter in a mock sympathetic voice, “ **It appears there’s been a bit of an accident. Such a shame.** ”_

That vision, that dialogue, flashed in his mind and Tintin could not tell how he wanted to react. _Horror, anger, distress, panic?_ He only moved instinctively back against the pillows, eyes wide and hands shaking as the aristocratic man made an appearance, sitting down at one of the nearest chairs to his bed as if absolutely nothing was wrong.

Sakharine appeared nonchalant, leaning against the back of the chair and propping his cane up against it, but Tintin could tell he always carried an air of clear self-satisfaction with how he expressed himself. He felt nauseous just looking at him, even if he didn’t have the energy to do anything about his presence.

“Well,” Sakharine finally spoke, conversationally, “you’re a sight for sore eyes---”

“Where’s the captain?” Tintin interrupted, a bitterness laced in his voice, “ _Why are you here?_ ”

Sakharine’s face dropped, appearing threatening in manner. The barest mention of Haddock always hit a nerve.

“A simple ‘thank you’ would’ve sufficed,” he spoke, leaning forward with his voice low and dripping with condescension, “And that’s none of your _business._ ”

Tintin shot back a similarly swift response. “You _tried_ to kill me,” he seethed, voice shaking regardless, “it’s _plenty_ of my business.”

Sakharine returned to his usual smug expression, leaning back in the chair. “Only appropriate of someone of your nosiness,” he remarked, putting his hands together in his lap, “he’s _fine_.”

The reporter narrowed his eyes. “Fantastic reassurance coming from you, Mr _Sakharine_ ,” he said, stressing the man’s last name, which clearly grated with him considering his discernibly contemptuous expression in response, “but the fact that it’s you here rather than the captain and…my dog Snowy…speaks volumes taking into account the kind of conniving person you are.”

The aristocrat laughed, though was nonetheless impatient at these remarks. Ever since Tintin had ended up bumping into him at the market and had a far too keen eye on the model ship he was holding, though he had a skill at appearing polite and affable, the reporter could tell someone of his status would attempt to redress the contempt they had for others to get what they wanted. Sakharine being of no exception, of course. He was far too willing to steer the conversation in his control, annoyed by his unwavering confidence, comebacks and questions despite his youth and appearance in such a situation, and it was all the more obvious here.


	7. pretending & believing i'm safe here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm finally finished. The title, though altered, is a reference to the song 'In This Moment' by The Birthday Massacre of which I feel is a theme to understand the trauma not just in this chapter, but one throughout this current fic that I wanted to address.

Tintin had begun to feel a level of nausea just by being in the same room as him, his laugh now being the one thing to grate on his own nerves. Either that, or it was the unfortunate after effects of being hit by a car and almost drowned by the man in front of him, which nonetheless felt like the same thing in his mind.

Sakharine returned to his usual serious resting face with alarming immediacy. “I’m not here to reassure you, Tintin,” he stated, still a twitch of self-satisfaction in the corner of his mouth, “I didn’t have you brought here for that.”

The reporter stopped, surprising himself with the fact that he didn’t connect the dots sooner. Which was more of a horrifying idea of what had happened to the captain and Snowy. Tintin had all the wrong ideas when someone like Sakharine had swept into his room, obviously, but something felt even more wrong now.

Tintin regardless managed to angrily stutter out a response. “You tried to kill me and my dog and then drag me to a hospital after the captain saved us and,” at which point he was trying to wrap his head around the whole thing, not sure if it was just the painkillers clouding his senses, “what on earth convoluted PR stunt is this??”

This only encouraged a bout of amused, cruel laughter from the man before he gestured his left hand with a dismissive motion. “Oh, ‘drag’ is such an untidy word to describe it, especially from one such as myself,” he responded in a similarly amused manner, “the captain was already useless to me and he proved my point by saving you. I only took what interested me. Contrary to my nature, you’re more useful to me alive than dead.” He briefly made an annoyed, bored expression before switching back to his usually amused, contemptuous expression, raising his eyebrows in this process. “Unlike Haddock, you’re a lot more… _fun_ , shall I say.”

Tintin felt his heart race, but a disgusted expression nonetheless formed on his face in response. It both scared and angered him how vile that last part especially sounded, even if he wouldn’t put it past Sakharine. Not that he wanted to think about that. He convinced himself to focus on other things and for a moment or so, he could.

He cursed the fact that he felt considerably immobile in a hospital bed, alone in a room with an incredibly powerful and unsavoury character. Nonetheless he tried to sit back up, defiant against the ache of his injuries and the nausea and general heaviness. Something was very wrong and had been from the very start, and he couldn’t help the strangled cry that escaped his mouth. “Where is he then?” he demanded, breathing heavily, “And my dog?”

Sakharine was certainly as sadistic as they came, and Tintin could’ve sworn the face the man was now making appeared mockingly concerned in nature. The reporter twisted his face in confusion as he got up, feeling a new need to recoil away from him but his own body now betrayed him as he felt a hand on his chest gingerly push him back against the pillows with a total lack of resistance. His heart was beating painfully, breathing heavier and an undeniably clear sense of… _nausea_ in the pit of his stomach.

 _No. Not this again._ He could feel flashbacks to so many times he’d been drugged and not realising until it was far too late to do anything about it. He could feel the palpable sensation of his anger turning to terror at being alone and helpless with this man, his defiance melting away as his body relaxed of its own accord.

“I wouldn’t do that, Tintin, quite inadvisable…you took a lot of _damage_ ,” he heard Sakharine say, his voice affable and full of fake worry at his condition, shifting the conversation now more in his favour, “I shouldn’t worry about them for now. You’re alive, of course, which is what matters… _to me._ ”

He went to bring his chair closer and Tintin could only watch as he sat down, leaning closer to him where he could see that usual sick grin in response. This reminded him of when he was brought onto the ship after being kidnapped and when it wasn’t evident that he was just angering the man further, he’d knelt down in a similar invasion of space that he’d find the scrolls regardless of his insolence. Being in a similar position was now just unnerving – though he was used to it, he was never past feeling disturbed at the inability to do _something_ about it.

He felt a hand run down his bare arm, down to his hand where it stopped. What felt like a panic attack rising in his chest felt stuck in his throat as Sakharine put his hand across his own up to his wrist. That single touch was suffocating enough without that piercing stare behind the man’s glasses, and it took enough effort to even speak again.

“I’ll worry about them as much as I like,” he attempted to say with any residual anger in his system, but it fell flat as he found it harder and harder to breathe. Whatever this was, it felt terrifyingly paralytic, more so to the point that whilst he was scared for himself in this position, he felt more scared about what could have possibly happened to the captain and his little trusty white dog. He couldn’t just be taken without something a lot more obviously sinister happening where Sakharine was concerned.

“You’re just tiring yourself out,” Sakharine said, clearly relishing this moment that had finally come to pass, his voice now far too overly sweet to not live up to his family name, “Besides, you should know that keeping you alive has some…compromises, for some very obvious reasons. Fortunately, being who I am, it’s easy to find ways to gain such wonderful compliance in an individual. Considering someone of your perseverance, doing it medically seemed like the right solution.”

Tintin could taste the nausea in his throat along with the discomforting sensation of it roiling around inside him. He managed to look up at the IV bag, shifting his head just about on the pillow at the clear liquid that had noticeably fallen in volume. He wasn’t any less shocked, but the fear only deepened in his wide eyes as he turned back to eye the man’s usual self-satisfied expression. He wished he could at least wrench his hand away, feeling an utmost sense of violation that went above and beyond how he felt before, but it was extremely evident that his body was registering that simple compliance desired of him. Being drugged was one thing, but still remaining conscious like this was another terrifying thing altogether.

This didn’t feel like his body, seeing himself as he felt as a hand reached up to stroke his forehead as a parent would do for a sleepy, troubled or sick child. It went up, right through the prominent curl of his hair and across it. This motion felt all too familiar, sparking a nausea not associated with the medically induced compliance and his eyes stung at the sudden new feeling.

There it was again. Eyes still wide, but feeling more like a child, staring into the eyes of someone that a parent would tell him time and time again not to go near; don’t talk to strangers and all that but these motions were far too familiar and far too wrong to feel like a stranger and now he was lying in a hospital bed at his mercy. He’d done this before, but maybe not like this, and maybe not feeling like the scared child he practically felt now.

 _Where was the captain? Where was Snowy?_ The same thoughts echoed around in his head as such a villain mimicked the comforting actions not reserved for this, for them, maybe it feeling like a similar dream when Haddock had dragged him up from the ocean into the shimmering halo of light on the surface and there would be no nightmarish figure to behold as he woke up back in his apartment.

_Where was the captain?_

_Where was Snowy?_

Sakharine seemed to read the emotions across his face and in his eyes and remembering the dialogue of a reporter intent on a friend and his dog. His mouth now appeared to split apart like an open wound and his voice was low as he spoke again. “If you have to worry about them again, go ahead. Perhaps I should clarify. When I said they were _fine_ , I was avoiding the fact until now that they’re actually _dead_.”


End file.
